www

it's so weird
no way to check who is checking on me
it's so weird
to have this window on the world through which i cannot see
it's so strange
to have taken you for granted for so long
it's so strange
that you don't even know that i am writing you this song

world on the web
friends far away
electronic words
so much to say
yet in a blink
everything's gone
and even if you don't think
you could carry on
you carry on

it's so weird
after ten years of writing each day
it's so weird
not like i have nothing left to say
it's so strange
like losing a link to a part of me
it's so strange
to have this window on the world through which i cannot see

world on the web
where have you gone
i'll still right here
babbling on
yet in a blink
we're out of touch
and even if you think
it doesn't mean so much
it means so much

what are we beyond the image of who we think we might be
based only on the words we read and write and sometimes say
we're still just a phone call away

but what is it that becomes something when nothing is here
is it all our imaginations that lead us to believe we really care
when the connection just seems to disappear

it's so weird
to be so dependent on blogs and email
it's so weird
to miss it so much when connections fail
it's so strange
i know i'm not the only one who feels this way
but here i sit alone writing these words
and here these words and i alone will stay

it's so weird
no way to check who is checking on me
it's so weird
to have this window on the world through which i cannot see
it's so strange
to have taken you for granted for so long
it's so strange
that you don't even know that i am writing you this song

comfort food

She sits there eating cookie after cookie, crème wafers covered in milk chocolate, chunky chocolate chip, double stuffed oreos, the chocolate covered kind that is sometimes hard to find in the stores. After two Italian subs, half a meatball, half a veal, and a whole eggplant (because the vegetables balances the diet, you know), all parmesan with double cheese and extra sauce (because she is so very oral, you know), and she is looking forward to the midnight snack, the two halves she did not just eat. It is only just after eight o'clock, after all, and she always has a snack before bed. The prime time hours have just begun, her favorite time of the day, so she has her snack tray laid out around her and she's making the great escape into other people's lives and carbohydrate heaven.

He knows how to be healthy, he's done it before, after all, as a former marathon runner and almost Olympian, yet he sits at his computer writing about his life, complaining mostly, because he must have given up on his dreams somewhere along the way, at least temporarily, long enough to pack on fifty pounds, much against his medical advice, and lose any connection with a social life, except for the messages on his computer. As midnight approaches, he drinks another Red Bull so he can continue on into the night, writing, writing, writing out his life, pouring out the loose thoughts and careless emotions that remain after whatever it was that shut him down and drove him to this, a shut-in existence linked to the outside world only by the umbilical cordless mouse-ball he ordered on the internet where he taps on into the night feeling like the king of his cyber kingdom.

They are two lost souls living in a fishbowl of electronic compassion, real as they want it to be. Her phone rings, she ignores it. The best part of her favorite episode is on and she must see it for the seven or eight hundredth time, year after year.

There's a knock at his door, he ignores it. He is on a roll and nothing can stop his fingers now for they are tapping out the symphony of his imaginary existence.

They are content, or at least numb, which is a form of contentment, I suppose.